


Criminal Acts

by StargazerNataku



Category: Batman Begins (2005), Dark Knight (2008), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Gen, Major Character Injury, Major Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:52:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StargazerNataku/pseuds/StargazerNataku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title** : Criminal Acts  
 **Author** : StargazerNataku  
 **Rating** : G  
 **Genre** : Drama/Mystery  
 **Characters** : Batman, Jim Gordon, Detective Stephens, Renee Montoya  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…  
 **Warnings** : None

_**Prologue** _

Detective Gerard Stephens studied the scene with the calm detachment that came with twenty-five years in the Gotham City PD and many nights spent at crime scenes just like this one. He noted the bare walls, the room empty save for a small nightstand, well-worn and dusty, and the once white, now dark grey, mattress set directly on the floor. A flash went off, obscuring his vision for a moment as the crime scene photographer got a better angle of the woman lying dead on the dingy bed. Her washed-out blonde hair was matted and tangled on the pillow, her skin was pasty grey, her t-shirt and gym shorts remained slightly damp with sweat despite the winter chill in the poorly heated room. By her side, a small bag lay open, containing what Stephens knew to be meth. No signs of struggle or trauma, just the dead girl and the small bag of drugs that made what had happened readily apparent. There were still tests to do and hoops to jump through to bureaucratically confirm what would be obvious to even a casual observer, and Stephens watched the photographer work, making sure everything was done properly.

When he heard footsteps behind him, Stephens turned his head slightly and spoke quietly to Renee Montoya as she paused in the doorway just behind his left shoulder. "Was the father able to talk?" he asked quietly.

"To an extent. He's the one that found her. Said he didn't have any idea she was using, although I kind of find that hard to believe. In a place like this…" she said quietly. "Who isn't these days?" She studied the scene herself, both detectives moving aside as a technician brushed past them to start his own work, the photographer having finished. "He's got a brother who's going to come, get him out of here. I've got the address; we'll know where to find him. I didn't want to push too hard. Not right now. The man's in shock. Understandably."

"Not at all," Stephens answered, turning back to study the scene, the young woman on the bed. "Particularly when all signs point to an accidental O.D." Montoya nodded. He shook his head slightly, tried not to think that, at seventeen, the dead girl was the same age as his second-oldest son. "We can get more information in the morning when they're done with the scene, but it looks pretty open and shut." He turned and Montoya moved to follow him back into the small, just as grubby living room where a middle aged man was sitting on a sagging orange and brown patterned couch. Stephens walked over to the man, sitting on the couch, and spoke gently. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Broden. I am sorry for your loss."

The man did not move, did not seem to hear, but Stephens was used to such things and moved instead for the door into the hallway, Montoya a pace behind. As they stepped out into the mid-February night, he turned up the collar on his coat against the biting wind, his gaze down at his feet to protect his face and to avoid the patches of ice visible on the poorly cleared street. They crossed to the car in silence, broken only as Stephens opened his car door. "Must be the brother," Montoya commented, and Stephens turned to see the vague outline of a man in the shadows arguing with the cops at the door to the rundown apartment building, digging into his pocket for identification before being allowed to enter.

"Must be," he answered as he got into the car, shutting the door behind him, rubbing his gloveless hands together to warm them. "I need to go back to the precinct. Want me to drop you at home?"

"No," Montoya answered. "I need to stop in myself."

"You sure? It's late." He glanced at the clock as he turned the key in the ignition and the old engine grumbled about starting in the cold before finally choking to life. One thirty-two a.m.

"Yeah, I am."

"All right," he said, putting the car into gear and easing out of the parking spot, turning at the next corner to head back downtown. They were silent as he drove, Montoya staring out the window with her head resting on her clenched fist, her face generally neutral but showing lines of anger around her eyes. Stephens clenched the steering wheel a little more tightly in his hands, understanding the other detective's frustration. Over twenty years in the police department and there were some cases that never got easier; the accidental overdoses—particularly in someone so young- were always a horrible waste of life. He sighed, glanced again at the clock, and changed lanes. "O.D's seem to be happening more often lately," Stephens said. "The stuff they're bringing in must be more potent or something."

"Yeah," Montoya agreed, but did not elaborate and Stephens did not try to force the conversation. He knew every available hand in narcotics was on the case, and there was certainly no need for their input, particularly when his partner did not seem inclined to conversation. It was something he would just have to work through on his own. Stephens already knew he would feel better once he arrived home, hugged his wife, and checked on his boys.

He parked the car and they both walked without a word to the elevator, taking it up to the offices on one of the upper floors. Walking into the dimmed main room, they both noticed the lights still glowing from underneath the door of the commissioner's office.

"He's still here? Jesus," Montoya commented. "I don't think he sleeps."

"I'll see what's up," Stephens said, setting the papers he had in his hand down onto his desk. "See you in the morning."

"Bright and early," Montoya shot back, sitting down at her desk. Stephens nodded, trying not to think about the sleep he would not be getting, and turned to walk to the opposite side of the room, knocking on Jim Gordon's door quietly. A voice bid him enter after a slight pause and Gerry opened the door.

"It's late, Commish," he told the other man. "You planning on getting some sleep tonight?"

Gordon sat back in his chair and pushed his glasses up his nose, noticing they had slipped down as he bent over an open file. "I'm going to catch a few hours," he told Stephens. "Shouldn't you be home doing the same?"

"Montoya and I just finished. Looked like an overdose. We'll know for sure after the autopsy."

Gordon removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We've had too many of those in the last month," he said. "And everything Narcotics does to stop the dealers from bringing it in only shifts the problem to other parts of the city."

"That really something you can do anything about at…" Stephens checked his watch. "Two o'clock in the morning?"

"No," Jim answered.

"Then seriously, Jim, go home. Another night on your office couch will do you no favors. You have to at some point, and last I checked you haven't in a day or so."

"Gerry…"

"I understand your dedication, but you're no good to anyone exhausted. Come on, commish. Go home." Gordon sighed, glanced down at the papers, and then closed the folder they rested in. Rising to his feet, he pulled on his suit jacket.

"I'm only going if you're on your way too," he informed the other man.

"On my way," Gerry promised. "If I'm not home by 3 Jess'll start to worry."

"Yeah, I know what that's like," Jim said, picking up his car keys and slipping his cell phone into his pocket, ignoring Stephens' slight wince at his words. "Let's head out, if we're going, or it won't be worth it."

"Aye aye, sir," Stephens said, re-buttoning his jacket before they exited Gordon's office and walked together towards the elevator.

Gordon and Stephens parted ways in the basement parking garage, Gordon fumbling in his pockets for his keys as he walked towards his car, pausing outside it as he separated his car key from the rest. Inserting the key into the door lock, Gordon hesitated, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as he turned the key and unlocked the vehicle. His other hand subtly dropped towards his gun, the feeling of threat and presence growing as he slowly turned. There was no sign of anyone, no readily apparent reason for his unease, until a block of shadows moved and coalesced into the form of a man. Gordon visibly relaxed and his hand fell away from his gun as the now-familiar rasp said his name in greeting.

"Gordon."

"Batman," Gordon said, leaning back against the door of his car, one hand finding his pocket. "I trust this isn't a social call." A folder appeared from underneath the folds of the cape and offered it to the commissioner, who took it.

"Information on possible narcotics shipments," Batman rasped.

"Get anything on the two kids that turned up dead in Crime Alley last night?"

"Gang war. The major three are still fighting for their share, and the lesser gangs are waiting to see who comes out ahead. "

"It's always something. Christ, I'd have thought things would get better with the mob as fractured as it is. But they're still bringing in this stuff, and worse. If it isn't mob activity it's the gangs. The mayor's really busting my chops on it. He's pressing me hard to bring you in too," Gordon said. "Part of his reelection campaign, he's practically calling it Garcia's War on Crime." He glanced back, opening his mouth to continue, and realized he was alone. With a self-depreciating shrug, he got into his car and pulled out of the garage into the silent streets, heading towards home.

As it had been for over a year, the house was empty when he entered it, hanging his coat on the hook behind the front door, tossing his car keys onto the table beside it. Gordon hesitated in the living room, pondering the kitchen for a brief moment before deciding he was not hungry enough to eat. He turned instead to the stairs, climbing them as a man weighted, exhaustion making every step heavy. Once to the top, he passed the empty rooms and entered the master bedroom. There, he changed into the sweats lying on the unmade bed and flipped through the mail he had picked up on his way into the house. There was nothing of interest, save a slightly tattered postcard with a bear on the front postmarked from somewhere he had never heard of in Wisconsin. It caused him to smile, for sure, but he also felt a flash of sadness as he read the note written in Jimmy's rushed handwriting, smiling at Babs' printing joining his son's at the bottom. It brought them closer to him and farther away all at once, and he wished that he had been a better husband, a better father, that he still had a place in his children's lives. In Barbara's life.

Gordon sighed and put the postcard in a prominent place atop his dresser before flipping through the last few pieces of mail. There was nothing there but bills and junk and political campaign leaflets, and Gordon tossed those aside to go through in more detail when he could think straight. Lying down on his side of the bed, he pulled up the blankets and made sure the alarm clock was on. Four hours of sleep was not going to be even close to enough, but he knew it would be better than nothing. He fell asleep quickly and, for once, did not dream.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It continued with an informant…

**Title** : Criminal Acts  
 **Author** : StargazerNataku  
 **Rating** : PG  
 **Genre** : Drama  
 **Characters** : Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It continued with an informant…  
 **Warnings** : None

_**Chapter 2** _

Bruce Wayne flinched as the curtains to his penthouse bedroom were thrust open, allowing copious amounts of midday sun to stream in through the floor to ceiling windows, reflecting against the white paint and matching furniture blindingly. "Alfred…" he groaned, turning his face out of the pillow and opening one eye just enough to glare at his butler, who was looking just a little too pleased with himself.

"I'm sorry, Master Bruce," Alfred said, though the smirk hiding in the corner of his eyes showed the amusement he took in waking the younger man that way. "But you do have that meeting with Mr. Fox this afternoon, and if you wish to be there in time…" He moved over to the small breakfast table in front of the windows, chair turned to make the best use of the panoramic view of Gotham's skyline, and busied himself with the tray he had brought. Bruce got out of bed and dropped into pushups. "Besides, nocturnal activities or no, it is later than you usually lie abed and I do have a vested interest in keeping you in one piece."

"As the inheritor, I'd think you'd like to see me go," Bruce teased, falling back on an old familiar joke while switching to sit ups. Alfred moved to make the bed behind him and lay out his suit.

"I would have a very hard time explaining my part as accomplice to your chosen hobby."

"That is true," Bruce commented as he moved to the tray and picked up the cup of coffee Alfred had poured for him in a fine porcelain cup. A single cup of black light roast to start the day right was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself in his stringent diet, and Alfred knew how to brew a perfect cup of coffee. "Perfect as usual," he told Alfred as he scanned the front page of the  _Gotham Times_ , also set there for his perusal, frowning over one of the articles.

"I thought the headline would interest you, Master Bruce," Alfred commented. "You haven't made the front page in awhile."

"Batman's a wanted criminal, Alfred," Bruce answered. "He shouldn't be in the paper at all, much less on the front page."

"Hard to avoid, when you're putting yourself in the middle of a shootout," Alfred commented.

"It was the best I could do at the time, Alfred. It meant no one was killed."

"And all the better for it, sir. But I am curious as to how long you expect to play the villain."

"As long as necessary," Bruce answered, setting the paper aside. "Forever if I have to." He could feel Alfred's disapproval, but the man changed the subject instead of voicing it.

"You do remember you have the benefit for the Natural History Museum this evening, sir?"

"Yes." He flipped through the sections of the paper until he reached the business pages, pulling them loose and scanning the headlines there as well.

"I'll lay out your tuxedo then."

"Not necessary, Alfred," he said, flipping to the stock pages.

"You're not planning on attending?"

"No," Bruce answered, distractedly taking a sip of his coffee. "There's a large shipment coming in tonight that Gordon's probably going to move on. I need to be there."

"Is that wise, Master Bruce? You know the mayor's pushing the Commissioner just as hard to arrest you as he is to get the drug trade under control."

"I know, Alfred, that's front page news too." He motioned to the table, where the front page lay to the side and the sidebar article which read ' _War on Crime! Mayor Garcia promises to slow drug trade, calls for Batman's arrest.'_  "Garcia's a fool if he thinks that Gordon isn't doing all he can, and it's going to catch up with him in the end. There's only so much that can be done through regular channels. Particularly with narcotics."

"And thus it needs to be done outside regular channels."

"Precisely, Alfred."

"Shall I send your regrets to Mr. Madison, then, sir?"

"That won't be necessary, Alfred. He always reminds me when I skip something he's throwing." Bruce smirked. "I think he expects it of me by now. I'll just explain when I see him at the campaign benefit Friday."

"What will your excuse be this time?"

"I'll let you come up with one, Alfred, you do seem to enjoy it."

"Very good, sir. I'll bring the car around for when you're ready."

"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce said, finishing his coffee and moving towards the bathroom to shower. By the time he had finished, dressed, and gone downstairs, Alfred was waiting at the door with an Italian leather briefcase.

"I put in the most recent designs, Master Bruce, including everything that was on your desk in the downstairs office."

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said, preceding him out the door. "We'll see how Lucius likes my most recent ideas. He does seem to enjoy aiding and abetting my projects."

"Well, sir," Alfred said as he opened the door to the Rolls Royce, "Neither of us can help ourselves." Bruce laughed and got into the car.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

Gordon arrived at the MCU at seven thirty-seven, later than usual because traffic was heavier than most mornings. When he reached his office, his secretary was there already, looking crisp, professional, and perhaps in the most contrast to Gordon, awake. He barely had time to hang up his overcoat before she provided him with a cup of coffee made just as he liked it—a dash of cream and two sugars—with copies of the night shift's reports. He took a sip of the coffee first, leaving the manila folders closed on his desk as he did every morning, deciding that there was at least  _something_  good about being the Commissioner. Marge's coffee never made up for the days the world went to hell, or the long nights trying to keep up with the steady stream of violence they have dealt with since the Joker's insanity, but it makes that first moment at his desk bearable and even, if he dared think it, enjoyable. It was only after savoring the richness of that first sip that he opened his eyes and made himself open the file on the top of the stack.

Marge left him alone for the first half hour as usual, then knocked smartly and entered to give him his schedule for the day. She sat, crossing her legs properly at the ankles and, when he shut the folder he was reading, began to list the meetings and commitments on his schedule for the day. "You have lunch with the mayor, today, sir," she told him. "He wants to talk about the proposed budget I put on your desk last week. I highlighted the parts which are pertinent to the department, so there isn't any need for you to read the whole thing. Oh, and at four thirty you have the tuxedo fitting for Mr. Wayne's fundraiser next month. I might remind you that the mayor requested your presence this time quite…adamantly. I sent in the response card in the affirmative two weeks ago."

"Okay," Gordon said.

"Here is the name and address of the shop." She handed him a piece of paper.

"This isn't going to cost me a fortune, is it?" he asked, glancing at it before folding it in half and sticking it in his pocket.

"No, Commissioner. I made sure the rental would be reasonably priced when I made the appointment."

"All right, thank you Marge. The benefit is?"

"Saturday, March twenty-third," she answered. "About a month from now."

"Anything else I need to know?"

"Detective Stephens needed a few minutes of your time."

"Is he here right now?"

"I believe he's out on a case."

"Have him come in when he gets back. I'll just be reviewing the budget, nothing that can't be interrupted."

"Very well, Commissioner. Is there anything else you need from me?"

"No, I'm fine for now, Marge, thank you."

She rose and tucked his scheduling book in the crook of her arm and disappeared quickly. With a sigh, Gordon dug through the haphazard piles of papers on his desk until he found the budget, slightly crumpled and conveniently flagged and highlighted for his perusal. There was that, at least, he decided as he flipped to the first page Marge had marked. She was worth double her weight in gold. Maybe even triple, considering how small she was.

His eyes were nearly crossed when the knock came on the door. Gordon looked up from the papers, finished the note he was making in the margin and called for whoever it was to enter, pushing the stack to the side thankfully. "Mornin' commissioner," Stephens said as he shut the door behind himself. "You look about as tired as I feel."

"Morning comes earlier every day," Gordon commented as Gerry sat in the chair opposite Jim and leaned back comfortably.

"That's age talking, Jim," Stephens told the other man. "We're not twenty and capable of running on four hours of sleep anymore, as Jess reminded me so kindly at breakfast this morning."

"I suppose not," Jim agreed, remembering the mornings he got that same daily reminder at the breakfast table. Now, the only place he got that reminder was from the mirror in his bathroom which, combined with the harsh fluorescent lighting he has not had a chance to change, clearly showed him every wrinkle in his face and emphasized the circles under his eyes. "What do you have for me?"

"Remember that suspected O.D. from last week, the young woman?"

"Remind me," Jim requested.

"Victim was Eira Broden, age seventeen. Found unresponsive by her father, one Richard Broden. Declared DOA by the paramedics. All signs clearly pointed to an overdose of methamphetamines."

"All right, I remember," Jim answered. "What about it?"

"I just got back from meeting with her father," Stephens said. "He wants to make a deal."

"For what? Does he think the death wasn't accidental?"

"That isn't it at all. He wants to turn himself in for dealing, and wants to cop a plea deal with the D.A. From what he made it sound, he wants to turn over everything he knows. Names, dates, everything."

"How much do you think he's got?"

"I did a bit of digging, and I think he's in pretty deep with the mid-levels of what's left of the Chechen's operations. It'll be enough to make the deal worth it. Besides, if the stuff he tells us is true, we can get a bunch of dealers off the street and at least a few shipments."

"True enough," Gordon said. "All right. Let me call the DA's office and see if we can't get someone over here to make the deal before this guy ends up in the river." He dialed the number, then sat back to wait after the secretary put him on hold. As they waited in companionable silence there was another knock on the door and Marge brought in the mail, setting it on his table with a slight incline of her head. "Thanks," he said, flipping through it as he had a brief conversation with one of the assistant D.A's. "Stephens, can you have him come over now?"

"That should be fine." He rose and disappeared out of the room to make his own phone call as Gordon ended his and set the phone back into the cradle. He turned instead to the mail and opened the first envelope, scanned the invitation to another political fundraiser, and tossed it to the side. The second, larger envelope contained another copy of the proposed police department budget with new edits; it joined the invitation to the side to look at when he had a spare minute. The last, a plain white envelope, he opened and from it withdrew a single sheet of paper; reading it he shook his head and gave a little chuckle.

"Something funny, commish?" Stephens asked from the doorway as he slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"Another death threat," he commented, showing Stephens the front of the message, composed of letters clipped from the newspaper and pasted onto a plain sheet of printer paper, wrinkled from the glue. "This author reaches new heights…or lows, more accurately. Can't even spell 'dead' properly."

"How'd he spell it?"

"D-E-D," Jim answered.

"Nice."

"I was wondering if I'd go the week without one. Guess not."

"Well, you know what they say, Jim."

"I know. If you're not getting death threats you're not doing your job. And these nuts," he waved the paper slightly. "Don't worry me nearly as much as the ones who don't inform you of their intentions beforehand."

Stephens inclined his head in agreement, then changed the subject. "Broden's on his way. I'll get it worked out and make arrangements for protective custody."

"All right, Gerry," he said. "Can you send Bair in for this?" he motioned at the letter. "He can get it where it needs to go."

"Sure thing, boss."

"Thanks." Gordon set it carefully to the side and pulled the budget back in front of himself with a sigh, checking the clock to be sure he still had the time before he had to leave to meet the mayor. Contenting himself that he had plenty of time, he pushed his glasses up on his nose and went back to work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title** : Criminal Acts (3/21)  
 **Author** : StargazerNataku  
 **Rating** : G  
 **Genre** : Drama  
 **Characters** : Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
 **Summary** : Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier.  
 **Warnings** : None

_**Chapter 3** _

Jim Gordon watched as the immaculately dressed waiter, complete with pristine white gloves, set the steak down before him on a thin china plate, adorned with dainty garnishes and not containing nearly as much food as a hard-working man would want. He waited as another did the same with the mayor's lunch, and privately decided that if he never had to have one of these fancy lunches again he would be a far happier man. The food was always excellent, but he could not wholly approve of lunches at Gotham's best restaurants on someone else's dime, feeling that such were a waste of taxpayer dollars. He was used to them now, had actually learned some French vocabulary, at least as much as it took to get his steak as he liked it, and actually enjoys the food for what it is. It was especially nice when he considered that when he took the Commissioner's job everyone was predicting he would not live long enough to become used to the job or experience its perks.

Gordon accepted a refill on his cup of coffee, then cut off a piece of his steak and took a bite, his attention split between the tender morsel and the mayor, who renewed their conversation after a bite of his own meal. "I am glad we had this chance to work everything out," Garcia told him. "I will see what I can do about reallocating some funds towards these new bulletproof vests, but I'm just not sure it'll be in the budget this year, at least for the majority of the department. We may be able to purchase some, of course. I can try to work it out."

"Thank you," Gordon responded outwardly, while inwardly he cursed the beancounters who put the budget over his peoples' lives. He knew full well the Mayor would barely try to get it into the budget; it would wait for another year while his people faced Gotham's dangerous streets without enough funding or equipment.

"The new equipment for the crime lab will have to wait, unfortunately," Garcia continued, his words coming as no surprise to Gordon. "But your partnership with the labs over at Wayne Enterprises for anything we can't manage is working out all right, yes?"

"In a manner of speaking," Gordon answered.

"What is the problem? Mr. Fox made it sound like a match made in heaven when I spoke to him."

Gordon doubted that Lucius Fox, who he had met a few times offhand, had really done so, but he ignored the mayor's exaggeration and replied. "It would be faster if we did not have to go through outside sources, and the D.A. thinks it may allow a future defendant to challenge whether evidence is admissible."

"I see," Garcia said. "Well, I'm afraid the city just doesn't have the money for it this year, Gordon. Perhaps…"

"Perhaps someone will come along and make it happen?" asked a lazy drawl from behind where Gordon was standing. The mayor was on his feet in an instant, and Gordon rose as well, taking his cue as Mayor Garcia stepped around the table and extended his hand. He turned, his gaze falling on the young man in a spotless suit, his hair fashionably slicked back, his hands manicured without a cuticle out of place.

"Mr. Wayne, always a pleasure," the Mayor said as the two men shook hands. "You know Commissioner Gordon, I think?"

"Commissioner," Wayne said with a broad, empty smile, shaking Jim's hand.

"Mr. Wayne," Jim answered.

"Now what is this you were saying?" Bruce Wayne asked, turning back to the Mayor.

"We were discussing the police department's part of the city budget, Mr. Wayne," Garcia answered. "And the police department's relationship with Wayne Enterprises."

"Yes, I think I heard a little about that," Wayne said, pulling a chair over from the next table and dropping into it. The Mayor sat, almost on the edge of his seat, and Gordon did the same. "Is the affiliation not to your liking, Commissioner?"

Jim bristled a little, but forced himself to speak calmly, knowing Garcia was hanging onto and judging his every word. Christ, he hated playing politics. "Not at all, Mr. Wayne. I'm thankful for the opportunity."

"Then  _what_  is the problem?" Wayne asked lazily, leaning back in his chair as though he was sitting poolside in Tahiti instead of in one of Gotham City's most prestigious restaurants.

"Jim was merely informing me that it would be faster if the police department were able to do their own work, instead of having to contract it out," Garcia explained. "And that the evidence would be more airtight at trial."

"Well that's important isn't it?" Wayne asked in the tone of a man looking for a necessary clarification.

"Very important, Mr. Wayne," Garcia answered patiently.

"Well then, let's see what we can do about it." He withdrew a cell phone from his pocket and pressed a series of buttons. Garcia gave Gordon a vaguely triumphant, vaguely disbelieving glance, then set his mind to eating as though he was completely uninterested in the phone conversation just starting beside him. Gordon went back to his steak as well, inwardly shaking his head, though he knew he would not complain about the source if the department got what it needed.

"Lucius!" Wayne was saying. "Well, I am very well, and you…yes of course. Say, I'm sitting here with the Mayor and Commissioner Gordon, and they had a fabulous idea…well indirectly…They said it would be faster if the police could do it themselves…it would? Indeed…" There was a long pause then, Fox's voice barely audible, but Jim imagined the man sitting at his desk and patiently explaining something to his simple-minded boss. "Well, that sounds great. Why don't you get in contact with the commissioner and we can get them what they need? Of course. All right, Lucius, I'll do that. You too." He hung up, and turned to Gordon with a beaming smile. "Finished," he said. "You just tell Lucius what you need and we'll see what we can do."

"Mr. Wayne…" the Commissioner said, and Wayne waved his hand to dismiss the commissioner's protests at the same time Garcia was giving him a look that could kill from across the table.

"Now now, won't hear of it. Lucius said it'll be good for us too. Something about taxes and sales to other police departments…too technical for me, for sure, but that's why he's in charge. So I don't have to be." Wayne grinned. "Better things to do with life, aren't there, commissioner?"

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Wayne," Gordon agreed. "You have my thanks."

"Nonsense, nonsense. It's you that should be thanked, Commissioner." He gave an easy, playboy grin. "You do more with yourself than I ever well, right?" He winked. "But we can't all be crusaders for justice. Some of us have to be the lilies of the field, as Alfred always says." Wayne rose and turned to Garcia with another grin. "Mayor, I'll see you on Friday, right? This one's your fundraiser, yes?"

"Yes it is, Mr. Wayne. And thank you." Wayne turned to Gordon who also stood.

"Commissioner, I will see you soon. You coming on Friday?"

"No, Mr. Wayne, I am not."

"A pity. Well, I know for a fact Alfred's got your card for my benefit in a few weeks. You will make it, won't you?"

"If it's in my power, Mr. Wayne."

"Excellent!" Wayne shook his hand, then turned to the waiter who had come up to the table. "This lunch's on me, Laurent."

"Of course, Mr. Wayne," the waiter answered despite the mayor's protests.

"Nonsense," Wayne said. "My restaurant, my rules." He smiled. "I'd best go, Jennifer seems to be getting impatient, and we all know what a pain impatient women are." He motioned to a leggy, rather buxom blonde sitting at a table in a private corner. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, and walked away towards her.

"Well," Garcia commented. "That solved the problem."

"Yes, I suppose so," Gordon responded, and they ate in silence for a moment, their minds elsewhere. Watching Wayne sit next to the woman in the corner, he gave a slight frown, his detective's mind clicking into gear as he pondered what had just happened. Bruce Wayne was a notorious playboy and, if Gordon did not mind being uncharitable, had the reputation of being somewhat of an airhead. There were those who said the only reason he'd lived this long was a combination of dumb luck and his butler, who managed the man's life to each minute detail.

Gordon had a hard time believing anyone was that stupid, particularly when they invited themselves into conversations and proceeded to promise hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of necessary equipment to a police force in need of it. But then again, he supposed everyone got lucky every now and again.

"There was something else I wanted to mention," Garcia commented non-chalantly, interrupting Gordon's train of thought. The commissioner again focused on the mayor. "I've been hearing rumors, and I need to make sure there's no truth behind them."

"About?" Gordon asked.

"There are those," Garcia said. "That don't think the Gotham Police Department is trying very hard to find that masked vigilante."

"You mean the Batman."

"Yes, Gordon. The Batman."

"Policy is, and always has been, to arrest him on sight."

"Yes, Gordon, I know. But we've both been in Gotham long enough to know that sometimes official policy means jack shit. I don't know the truth of what's going on. I don't want to. But I've made promises to the people of this city that we're going to get him off the streets, and I meant them. And the longer I go without delivering, the worse it gets for me. I want to see some progress on this, or there will have to be consequences. And neither of us want that. Is that clear?"

"As crystal," Gordon responded.

"Good." The mayor took the last bite of his pasta. "I don't want it to end that way, commissioner. You've been good for this city, and I want you in your job. But I also need results."

"Of course," Jim agreed, promising himself that the mayor would not get them. "I'll turn up the heat as best I can."

"Thank you," Garcia said, as both men rose. "I should get back to City Hall." He extended his hand and shook Gordon's. "Thanks for taking the time to meet with me today. I'll do what I can with this." He motioned with the papers in his hand. "And you can talk to Fox for the rest, apparently."

"Thank you," Gordon said, following the mayor out the door to where the valet had already pulled up his car. He tipped the man, trying to ignore the headache forming behind his temples that political meetings always seemed to cause for him. Getting into the car, he sighed, then pulled into traffic, heading back to the MCU to face the stack of paperwork waiting for him.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Criminal Acts (4/21)  
Author: StargazerNataku  
Rating: PG  
Genre: Drama/Mystery  
Characters: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…  
Warnings:

_**Chapter 4** _

Jim Gordon walked into his office and tossed his keys onto his desk, hanging his coat up on the hook on the wall. Another moment allowed him to cross the room and throw himself into his desk chair which creaked much like his back did as he leaned back and closed his eyes, ignoring the clock that showed 12:04 am. It had been a ridiculously long week, starting with his lunch with Garcia and the budget work, followed by several junkies and dealers found murdered in and around Crime Alley, and capped off by a six hour hostage-crisis after a would-be armed robber took twenty patrons and tellers captive at Gotham Central Bank. And now it was late Friday night, no early Saturday morning, and Gordon was exhausted, every muscle in his body aching with the stress of the week. He sighed, trying to find the energy to finish one or two last minute, small tasks, but found himself incapable of moving. Once he was, Gordon decided, he was going home and to hell with anything else. He would come in tomorrow and get everything done then.

He almost groaned at the knock on his half open door. He opened his eyes, his gaze falling on Gerry Stephens, standing in his door with a mixture of reluctance, anger, and resignation on his face. "Gerry," Gordon said, his voice tired and, he realized, old-sounding. "I have had my fill of bad news and shit situations for the week, so unless it's something that I either can or have to do something about, I don't want to know."

"Believe me," Gerry said, coming into the office and tossing himself into the chair opposite Gordon's. "I didn't want to know either. But it's something we need to manage."

"It usually is," Gordon said with a sigh. "What is it?"

"Broden's dead."

It took a long moment for Gordon's tired mind tried to figure out what Stephens was talking about. "The informant?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What?" Gordon demanded, sitting up straight, suddenly awake. "He was in protective custody."

"Yes, sir, he was, for all the good it did."

"What happened?"

"Death by typo, I believe Warden Bradbury called it. They got the wrong prisoner number on a set of paperwork. They were transferring him to another cell block, as the orders requested, at the same time members of the general population were being escorted back to their cells. When several other inmates recognized him, they went ballistic. Overcame Broden's guards, one of whom is dead, took the dead guard's weapon, and shot Broden in the temple. Twice."

"Christ," Gordon cursed, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand. "Bradbury's investigating?"

"He is, but you know this city, commish. No matter how far we've come, there are still people who can be bought off. Someone'll get disciplined, but there'll be no way to prove it was done with malicious intent. Hell, it may very well not have been. That's always been the trouble with Gotham. Can't prove it either way."

"And we lose a man who it was our responsibility to protect, plus the key witness in multiple trials."

"Essentially."

Gordon's head was now pounding, and he rubbed his temples tiredly. "There's nothing we can do tonight," he finally said, feeling the weight of personal responsibility falling squarely on his shoulders, now noting the calls he had missed on his cell phone while helping resolve the hostage situation. "It's too late to return phone calls, and what's done is done."

"Jim," Stephens said. "You look terrible." He stood. "Get your coat, I'm taking you home."

"I need…"

"Now, Jim," Stephens interrupted. Gordon met the other detective's eyes and held them for a long moment. He finally sighed and rose.

"All right. But I can drive myself."

"I'm sure you can, but you're not going to. You can call a squad to pick you up in the morning. Hell, I can pick you up."

"You're on tomorrow?"

"Start at noon, technically," Gerry said as they moved through the empty bullpen. "Aiming to be in about eleven. I'll pick you up on the way in."

Gordon nodded, and together they entered the basement parking garage. They were silent as they got into Stephens' car, and started making their way uptown through mostly deserted streets. Gordon leaned back against the headrest and shut his eyes, trying to force away the stress that had knotted his back and made his temples throb. "Gerry?" he finally asked, as Stephens turned onto Gordon's street.

"Yeah, Jim?"

"Was there anything else we could have done to avoid this?"

Stephens was quiet, pondering the question as he pulled over at the curb. "There are always things we could have done to better control the situation, Jim," he finally said. "I'm not sure what they are tonight, for sure, but I do know this. We didn't make him deal and we didn't make him turn snitch either."

"No, we didn't," Gordon finally said in answer, opening his eyes. "Thanks Gerry." He undid his seatbelt and opened the car door, stepping out into the brisk night air.

"I'll be back about ten-thirty tomorrow morning, all right, Jim?" The commissioner inclined his head. They wished each other goodnight and Gordon turned away from the vehicle, putting all of his effort into putting one foot in front of the other as he crossed the small lawn and went up the front porch stairs. He grabbed the mail and tossed it onto the couch without looking at it, going instead to the kitchen where he turned the light on and pulled a clean tumbler out of the dish rack in the sink. He glanced at the refrigerator before bending down to retrieve the bottle of whiskey he stored in the lower cupboard. As he leaned over, however, there was the sound of glass shattering as the window above the sink exploded inward. Gordon hit the floor instinctually, his hands moving automatically to cover his head as shards of glass rained down upon him. His hand then went instantly to the gun in the holster at his side as he glanced upward, first to the window, then to the opposite wall. It was scarred now with two deep indentations he recognized as bullet holes, causing his heart to pound with how close he had come to potentially lethal injuries. He did not give himself time to think about that; he was in motion almost immediately, crawling through the kitchen and the living room, his heart pounding in his chest.

Wide awake with adrenaline, intuition sent him quickly up the stairs and into his bedroom where he knelt behind the cover of the bed, gun in one hand and trained on the doorway, cell phone in the other as he dialed 9-1-1.

Forcing his breathing to steady, Gordon listened for the sound of anyone entering the house as he quickly relayed to the dispatcher what had happened, his gun clenched in a sweaty palm, his heart pounding in his chest. His ears strained into the darkness, listening for the slightest sound, but heard none, no tell-tale sound of glass breaking or a door being kicked in, not even the creaks of weight falling onto the old staircase that Gordon knew intimately. Nothing except the pounding of his heart and, in the distance, sirens.

All the same, he did not relax until he heard his officers clearly identifying themselves as they pounded on the door. He moved slowly into the hallway, gun at the ready, moving down the stairs steadily to open the front door and let two patrolmen in as a few more squads pulled up to the curb. "You all right, Commissioner?" the officer asked.

"Thankfully," Gordon answered, stepping aside. Both men came in, completing a quick search of the house to be sure it was empty as other officers began a search of the neighborhood just as a car Gordon recognized as Montoya's pulled up to the curb.

"I'm fine, Renee," he said preemptively as she came striding into the room, Harvey Bullock a step behind.

"Like hell," she responded, glaring at him. "Mind telling me what happened?"

"As it's your job to ask," Gordon said, "I imagine I wouldn't."

"Cute," she told him. "Real cute."

"It's simple, Renee. Stephens dropped me off, and when I came in I went to the kitchen to get a drink. Seconds after I started bending over to get the whiskey out of the lower cabinet, the window exploded and I hit the deck. I stayed low, got upstairs, and called it in."

"So, who'd you piss off lately?" she demanded.

"Isn't the right question who  _haven't_  I pissed off since taking this job?" Gordon asked tiredly. "You know that as well as I do, Montoya."

"I do," she answered, jotting down some notes before looking back up at him. "You look like death warmed over."

"Thank you, I appreciate the compliment," he said dryly, the weight of exhaustion again settling over him.

"I already called Stephens. He wanted to come over, but I told him that Bullock and I were still at the office. He's getting their guest room ready for you instead. We've two units scouting the neighborhood, and there'll be a unit posted outside their house. Come on, I'm taking you over there. Bullock'll finish up here."

"Renee…"

"No buts, Commish. It's already arranged. Go get your things together."

Gordon pondered arguing but decided against it, knowing it would do him no good and that he would not sleep with investigators going over his kitchen. Instead he rose, went upstairs, and grabbed a change of clothes from the closet before throwing his toothbrush and a few other toiletries into a plastic bag. When he came downstairs, Montoya was waiting at the door, shoving a SWAT helmet and a bulletproof vest at him. "Is that really necessary?" he asked.

"Considering the circumstances, yes," she informed him. Again, he decided it was easier not to argue and put both on. Only when that was done did Montoya swing open the door and go out, Gordon a pace behind. Neither spoke on the short drive to the Stephens' home, Montoya deep in her own thoughts, while Gordon tried not to think about how close he had come to a far different ending. He remembered Barbara's harsh, accusatory words during one of their last arguments.  _This city's going to be the death of you, Jim, and here you are, digging the grave she'll throw you into without a damned care that it's your own!_

Gordon sighed. "Do you ever wish it was easy, Renee?" he asked.

"Easy? Gotham? Never going to happen, Commish."

"I know. That's not what I asked." She pulled into the Stephens' driveway, and glanced up to where Gerry was already opening the door.

"Sure I wish it was easy. I also wish you'd have more sense so you'd avoid getting this close to having your head blown off." She looked at him, her eyes hard. "We've come too far to let Gotham go back to the way it was, and it's already halfway backwards. You're the first good thing to happen to this department since I was a rookie, and I'll be damned if I let you get yourself killed. Now go in and get some sleep. You look like shit."

"You always know what to say to make a man feel better, Montoya," Gordon said as he undid his seatbelt, and despite his dry tone he meant it. "I'll see you in the morning."

"If I see you before you've gotten at least eight hours of sleep, I'm going to kick your ass, commissioner or no, sir."

"I'd have to fire you."

"I'd chance it. Now out." He gave her a mock salute and exited the car, grabbing the small bag from the backseat and going up the stairs to where Stephens was already holding open the door. He tossed a wave back at Montoya before together they went in and shut the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title** : Criminal Acts (5/21)  
 **Author** : StargazerNataku  
 **Rating** : PG  
 **Genre** : Drama  
 **Characters** : Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
 **Summary** : Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…

**__**

**_Chapter 5_ **

It had been another long day. By the time he had settled himself into bed the night before, it had been after three, and sleep had only come as the sun was rising, light shining softly through the curtains of the Stephens’ oldest son’s bedroom. He had managed only three hours of sleep before rising again and returning downtown. Then, by necessity he had spent the day dealing with the fallout of Broden’s murder, having run a press conference and met with the warden of Blackgate and the mayor. It had been beyond stressful to be caught in between the two; both were angry and unafraid to show it, leaving Gordon in the middle of what he thought sounded like two siblings fighting over a favorite toy. It was especially trying for Gordon, as this was not just a political problem in his mind. A man had been killed on his watch and under his department’s promise of protection; while the fault was not entirely theirs the responsibility certainly was. It had kept him stonily silent, aware that if he tried to speak he would undoubtedly burn more bridges than he cared to, particularly since this was an election year for Mayor Garcia and Bradbury did not like him. He had been thankful when the meeting had finally ended, and returned to his office in the MCU and gotten through some work, both new and old, sitting on his desk.

For the last half hour, however, Gordon had been sitting, folders all closed on the table, studying the fishtank across from his desk, watching the small creatures swim in lazy circles, deep in thought. His mind replayed the entire night before, the long hours of stakeout and the news of Broden’s death, the moments of fear as the window shattered above his head, the realization that he was very lucky to be alive. He scanned over the names on the files, the reports from his officers, all the information he was using to try to defend the people under his protection spread haphazardly across his desk. His gaze caught on a folder, tucked discreetly underneath the others, a thin folder with only a few pieces of paper and no labels, no trace of handwriting that could be analyzed and traced back to a person whose face he had never seen. He pulled it loose, flipping through the pages within as his thoughts strayed to the vigilante who had chosen Gordon as the one man who could help in his crusade. The man who had sacrificed everything in order to save the city from a truth it could not face, a truth that could ruin Gordon if it ever came to light. He frowned slightly as he struggled inwardly, his thoughts conflicted as he thought of the lie, of Batman’s sacrifice and the safety in the fact no one else knew of their deception.

He was jolted from his reverie by the sound of Stephens’ voice in the bullpen and Montoya’s sharp retort. He looked up, and in a brief moment his decision was made. Gordon rose to his feet and went to the door of his office, opening it and taking a half step out into the bullpen. “Stephens,” he said. “Montoya. I want to talk to both of you.” He heard them both rise and, satisfied, he returned to his desk. Montoya entered first, Stephens right behind. “Close the door, will you, Gerry?” Jim directed. The other man did as requested as Montoya sat. When Gerry had seated himself beside her, Jim leaned forward in his chair and, steepling his fingers before him, rested his elbows on the table.

“I know I can trust you both implicitly,” Gordon told them, cutting right to the chase. “What I am about to tell you is to go no further than the three of us, that needs to be completely clear before I say anything more.”

“Of course, commish,” Stephens answered.

“Not a word,” Montoya agreed.

“Neither of you are stupid, in fact I know you both already suspect a good deal, but there’s more truth to what you suspect than you realize.” He cleared his throat. “Batman is not and never has been a murderer. Or a kidnapper,” he added pointedly. “He took both accusations upon himself to hide the truth, to avoid everything we worked for coming undone.”

“There were bodies, commish,” Montoya said. “You can’t tell me those five people killed themselves.”

“There were bodies, yes,” Gordon said. “But Batman did not kill them.” He took a deep breath, and then dropped the bombshell. “Harvey Dent did.”

“Commissioner,” Montoya protested immediately. “That is the stupidest…craziest thing I have ever heard. Dent? All American poster boy Harvey Dent.”

“Yes,” Gordon said, and explained briefly to his detectives what had happened and why the lie had been necessary, sending both Montoya and Stephens deep into thought. “He was insane. Scarred and grieving and completely mad.”

“You have to be kidding me,” Montoya finally said. “What kind of self-sacrificing, masochistic…is Batman insane too?” Jim Gordon had asked himself that question more times than he could count, and always he came to the same answer.

“No, Montoya, he isn’t. Acts it sometimes, but…he is one of the sanest men I know.”

“He says about the man who jumps off buildings dressed like a giant bat,” Montoya commented to Stephens. “Why are you telling us this, Commish? Does he know you are?”

“No, he does not,” Gordon answered. “But…after what happened last night, I realized someone else needs to know. I don’t want… someone else needs to know the truth. Just in case.”

“And he’s going to be okay with this?” she asked.

“He’s going to have to be. It’s done now, isn’t it? It’s not like I told you his secret identity or anything.”

“Y…you know who he is??” Montoya demanded in shock. Jim smirked.

“No, I don’t, actually.” She slumped back in her chair with a groan. “That was for threatening to hit me last night, Montoya,” he informed her. “Now, unless you have any questions, I think we all have better stuff to be doing.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Montoya said. He looked to Stephens.

“All right, Gerry?”

“Yes, commissioner,” he answered, and Montoya got to her feet and, mumbling an excuse about paperwork, left the room, and closed the door behind her. Jim leaned back in his chair and the two men studied each other in silence for a long moment. “Why didn’t you tell us before?” Stephens finally asked.

“It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

“And now it is.”

“It probably still isn’t,” Gordon said. “But someone needed to know. I’m sorry to put this weight on your shoulders, Gerry. I am, because I know it’s not an easy weight to carry. But I needed to know that I could trust those I told beyond a shadow of a doubt. You and I go way back, and I know that I can trust you not only to stay silent, but that I can trust you to always do the right thing.”

They were quiet for a long time, staring at each other, before Stephens broke the silence. “Just so long as you’re the one to tell the Bat.”

“I will be,” Gordon reassured him. “Hopefully soon. That is assuming, of course, that he doesn’t know already.” At Stephens’ confused look Gordon chuckled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he had the room bugged,” he informed the other detective.

“And…and you accept that?” Stephens asked, looking at Gordon like he were the crazy one.

“Well, I don’t have a floodlight anymore to let him know I need his attention, so I have to make do with what I have.”

“I’m starting to wonder if you’re insane,” Gerry commented, getting to his feet. “Do you want to stay with Jess and me again tonight?”

“I have to go home sometime,” Gordon said.

“What you’ve gotta do is sell that place and move somewhere safer.”

“Probably,” Gordon agreed. “But for now, I’ll be all right. I have a late meeting tonight anyway, and I don’t want to wake you up in the middle of the night again.”

“Late meeting, huh?” Stephens said. “Well, give them my regards.” 

“I will,” Jim said, following the detective to the door of his office.

“Look, Jim,” Gerry said as his hand went to the doorknob. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, I just…I don’t know what to feel about the Bat, never have. I just…I don’t know.”

“I know, Gerry, and I understand. That’s one of the reasons I thought you should be told. You’ll always question and you won’t let him get away with anything.” Stephens accepted that with a nod. 

“All right. I’ll see you Monday, commish.”

“Of course, and thank you.” Stephens nodded and left the office. Jim shut the door behind him and went back to his desk, glancing at his watch. Seven-thirty. Several more hours yet before Batman could be reasonably depended on to show, so Gordon picked up a few of the casefiles on his desk and went back to work.

**********************************

Gordon stood on the roof, looking out over the city as he waited patiently. There was still a chill in the mid-spring air, and he shifted so his back was to the wind, studying the buildings and hearing the roar of the traffic far below. He sensed rather than saw the Bat’s arrival and turned, his feet crunching in the remnants of the shattered glass of the floodlight, and found the man he had waited for standing several feet from him. “Busy week,” he commented.

“Yes.”

“Got word just before I came up here. A few beat cops found two more dealers dead off Crime Alley. Same M.O. as the six previous. Shot execution style, back of the head, robbed. I’d be willing to bet it’s the same caliber weapon as before, though we won’t know that for certain until the autopsies. So far no fingerprints or weapon, as before. I’m more convinced than ever we’ve got ourselves a new serial killer. Last thing we need, really.”

“Here.” Batman drew an envelope from the folds of his cape, and Gordon took it. “Found the same bootprint at three of the scenes. And at your house.”

“My house?” Gordon asked.

“From last night. Caliber matches, doesn’t it.”

“Yes,” Gordon admitted. Batman’s silence said everything his voice did not. “My people are doing everything they can to get to the bottom of this,” Gordon told the other man. “And I’m not staying at home for a few days. We’ll see if we can’t get this guy.” More silence, though Jim could still sense Batman there, lurking behind. He hesitated. “I told Stephens,” he finally said. “And Montoya.” There was another long silence, and Gordon felt as though the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. “Someone else needed to know, Batman. If anything happens to me…someone needs to know. I trust them as much as I trust you, and I know they will not betray that.”

“You knew that about Wuertz and Ramirez too,” Batman said, his voice cold and radiating disapproval.

“I know I was wrong before,” Gordon said, “And I’ve well paid for it, I promise you. So did Dent. I’ll always regret it, and I’ll always deserve a fair share of the blame for it.” He thought of Rachel Dawes, dead on his watch, and Harvey’s quest to murder all those responsible, to make them suffer as badly as he suffered. He thought of Batman’s lost reputation, his self-imposed martyrdom, and how the man must be—he assumed, anyway, since he would never know for certain—suffering for it. He thought of coming home to his empty house, divorce papers on the table with a note from Barbara asking him not to contest. “But in this case, I know for a fact they will keep my trust. I’ve known Gerry Stephens for almost twenty years. We walked the beat together, and we’ve been through a lot of things where the chips were down and you get to see who a person really is. I trust Gerry more than I trust nearly anyone else, and he will not let me down.”

“And Montoya?” Gordon actually had to laugh.

“What you see is what you get, Batman. She’s no-nonsense, tough as nails, and does the right thing no matter what. She’s caught a lot of flak for that over the years, I’m sure you know that as well as I do. But they’re my two best people, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they can be trusted with this. He turned to the masked vigilante with a wry smile. “And I know you know that too. I’ve never seen them, but I’d stake my job and my reputation on the fact that you have one of these…” he held up the file. “For every single one of my people. And for me.” Batman’s silence told Gordon as much as he needed to know. “Thought so,” he commented with a wry smile. “It goes no farther, I promise. But just like you thought the lie was for the best in the first place, I think this is the best now.” 

“It’s too much a risk for you, Gordon,” Batman growled. “If it came out you willingly lied to make those convictions stick…”

“I’ll lose my job for certain, and I’ll be facing jail time in the best of scenarios,” Gordon said calmly. “I’ve had to accept that.” He studied the vigilante’s face as best he could in the shadowy darkness. “You became the villain, and I’m your accomplice. There’ll be no arguing that I was mistaken, if the truth ever came out.”

“Gordon…”

“It’s too late for you to have second thoughts, Batman. I did as you asked because we both know it was the best thing to do for Gotham. You know I am willing to sacrifice my life for Gotham, in any form. I accept this falling on me if it does come to light. It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make if I must, and some days almost wish for it because then you’d be free to continue doing what needs to be done in a capacity that I cannot hope to match.”

“Gordon…”

“Stop arguing with me, Batman. What’s done is done, and I can’t take it back. You’re just going to have to trust my judgment on this one. I won’t have you facing this war by yourself if, God forbid, anything happened to me. We’re partners, we should look after each other.” Silence stretched unbroken between the two men for a long moment before Batman spoke, changing the subject in a tacit acceptance of Gordon’s words.

“You’re not going home tonight.” It was not a question.

“No, I’m not chancing it. The last thing I need is to make it easy for them to make a second attempt.” Another half-nod in the shadows, then an impression of a slight movement, and Gordon knew he was alone again. He gave a slight, wry smile, when he realized that they had actually had what could be considered a real conversation. And he, Jim Gordon, had gotten the last word. Somewhat pleased with himself, Gordon turned to cross the roof towards the access door, rubbing his hands together to warm them.


End file.
